The Measure of a Man
by whirlyite
Summary: Written 10 years ago after a particularly traumatic time in my life. Tell me what you think. And yes, my maternal ancestors fought for the South. Constructive criticism only please. Rated T for a few coarse words.
1. Chapter 1

"The past is not dead. It isn't even past." - William Faulkner

"Where there is great love there are always miracles." - Willa Cather

He awoke, finding himself face down in a pool of vomit and his own congealed blood. One glance at his right arm confirmed what the unconscious pain had been telling him; that it was broken, and badly at that - the hand canted at a horrifically unnatural right angle to the bruised and swollen forearm. Waves, no make that tsunamis, of nausea washed over him as he attempted to move to an upright position. He searched his whirling mind for any cognizant thought - any memory of how he ended up here, in this condition, and came up empty. He swallowed hard, trying to keep the bile and who knew what else in its proper place. It didn't work. No point in being fastidious now. _OH LORD…no mistaking Jack Daniel's Old No. 7. Some blood as well. Not much food. Well that explains some of what may have happened._

The involuntary evacuation of his stomach seemed to clear his mind as well. He hazily remembered being in a raucous bar on Vela Gamma II, trading insults with a particularly insolent Tellarite bartender while on an enforced shore leave with Jim Kirk. Given the circumstances, he was raising hell quite decently, thank you very much. He had convinced Jim that he was okay, giving the go-ahead for Kirk to leave with a particularly winsome young lady. Kirk had looked back questioningly and he had nodded jovially. Jim winked, and threw his trademark devilish grin over his shoulder as he departed. He had lifted his newly-filled glass in a drunken toast to them, made sure they were out the door, and then nonchalantly tossed down the handful of little red pills. That was where the memory dead-ended.

_It wasn't supposed to be like this!_

He had been looking forward to blessed unconsciousness and a leisurely descent into oblivion.

Wincing, he took stock of his other injuries. _Head, contusions, scrapes, hell of headache. Jaw, yikes! Scalp wound, guess that explains the rest of the blood. Ribs, bruised and tender. Abdomen, very tender. That's to be expected Leonard m'boy. But what the hell happened? _ Why wasn't he dead? Or at least well on the way?

He tried to get his eyes to focus to see exactly where he was. They weren't cooperating. Just when he wondered if it could get any worse, a shudder of pain knocked him off balance. He flailed out with his good arm to support himself and planted his hand right in the middle of a steaming pile of what felt and smelled like horse manure (or this particular planet's equivalent thereof).

_What the…! Well that caps off a perfect evening! Can't even kill yourself with any kind of dignity, can you Leonard?_

He squinted, trying to see where he was. A string of dim, eerily glowing yellow lights stretched irregularly off into the distance.

_Gas lights!_

He remembered seeing something vaguely similar in the old Gas Lamp Quarter of San Diego the last time he was there. But he sure didn't remember seeing any when they entered the bar. Vela Gamma II was a far-flung outpost to be sure, but they certainly didn't rely on antique gas lamps for street lighting. It suddenly struck him that he was lying in a genuine old-fashioned street gutter.

_Oh ho, so it's come to this? What would my daddy have thought? _He choked down a sudden surge of deep emotion.

_Must be getting hypothermic, hysterical, or both. Well that could be good. _The cold and damp exacerbated the pain and confusion.

A clarion thought barged in: _God, what about Jim?_ He broke into a fresh cold sweat as he pondered the whereabouts and condition of his Captain.


	2. Chapter 2

"WHAT? That's not like Bones at all!"

Spock did not relish having to awaken the Captain to inform him that his ship's CMO did not report back aboard ship after shore leave.

"Are you sure Spock? He's not in his quarters sleeping it off?"

"No sir. Knowing the good Doctor as well as we both do, that was my first destination. He was not there, nor was he in the Sickbay or the observation deck. Mr. Scott confirmed that the Doctor did not transport back from the planet's surface."

Kirk ran a hand through his sleep-tousled hair. He had insisted, nay ordered, Bones take shore leave with him. The doctor had taken his father's recent death hard, very hard. Since his return from bereavement leave on Earth he had steadfastly refused any and all attempts by either Kirk or Spock to penetrate the fierce walls of private pain he had erected, spending most of his off-duty time in his quarters or quietly staring out at the stars from the observation deck. Kirk had wanted to try to nudge him out of his moroseness for at least one evening, and he thought he had succeeded. The last time he saw McCoy downplanet, he appeared to be completely but happily sloshed, proposing a mock serious toast to Kirk's retreating backside. What had happened afterwards? He dismissed the beginnings of a dark, inconceivable thought. Bones always managed to wander back aboard hours before Kirk himself usually returned. He never stayed overnight without checking in. And especially never AWOL. Very odd. "Have we informed the Federation consul planetside?"

"Yes sir. Lieutenant Uhura contacted them as soon as the doctor failed to report in."

Well, he should've known. Bones wasn't his friend exclusively. He reached for the 'com. "Lieutenant?"

"Yes, Captain?" came Uhura's reply.

"Patch me in to the Federation consul."

"Yes sir." The next voice he heard wasn't nearly as pleasant or helpful.

"United Federation of Planets, Vela Gamma II legation. Parker speaking."

"Mr. Parker, Captain James T. Kirk commanding the U.S.S. Enterprise. I apologize for the inconvenience of the hour. I wish to speak to the Ambassador concerning the disappearance of my Chief Medical Officer -"

"Captain, the Ambassador is in bed and cannot be disturbed. He will be available at 0900 hours. Good evening."

"Mr. Parker, I must insist on speaking to the Ambassador, based on my authority as Starfleet's representative in this quadrant." Kirk used his most imperious command tone, to no apparent effect.

"I am sorry Captain, but the Ambassador left explicit instructions not to be disturbed. Good evening." The transmission was abruptly broken off.

Sotto voce, "Pompous ass", then "Mr. Spock, you and I will beam down promptly at 0845 hours." Kirk's tone did not bode well for the hapless Mr. Parker, or the Federation Ambassador for that matter.

Spock inclined his head slightly and left.

At that moment, the object of their solicitude had slowly pulled himself up onto some sort of curbing, where he leaned heavily against a lamppost nursing his broken wrist, trembling with pain and cold. _This isn't how it's supposed to be!_

Strains of an ancient Southern tune wafted upon the damp night air. _Wha..? How could that be…! The Bonny Blue Flag? Delirium. Has to be!_ A voice approached from the darkness, a voice he didn't recognize, seemingly addressing him, coming closer and closer.

"Cap'n? Cap'n!"

_Captain? Not me. I'm just an ol' country doctor, remember?_ As steady arms caught and encircled him, he slipped into an oddly comforting unconsciousness, wondering just where in the hell he was.


	3. Chapter 3

Uhura had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Dr. McCoy never failed to return from shore leave or at least to check in if he was to be delayed for any reason, even when he had imbibed too much. She continued automatic scan for his communicator frequency. She looked up as Scotty leaned over her shoulder.

"Anythin'?"

She shook her head glumly. "Where could he be Scotty? It's almost as if he's disappeared from the planet's surface. He either doesn't have his communicator with him or it's been damaged." She looked up sharply at Scott as the implications of the latter part of her statement sank in.

Scott sighed and patted her shoulder, "Keep tryin' lass. Keep tryin."

She took a deep breath and began standard hospital contact search procedure.

********************

He came to slowly, as if his mind couldn't bear to face consciousness and what it may have to deal with. He lay ensconced in a very comfortable old-fashioned featherbed, covered with some sort of quilt. His left arm was clean (thank God) and tucked tightly against his side. His right arm lay across his chest, firmly splinted, wrapped in some sort of linen bandages, and nestled in a fabric sling tied around his neck.

_Very warm and cozy. Still doesn't answer where the hell I am. And why I'm not dead._

He tried to raise his head and look around. Big mistake. The room swam wildly. He closed his eyes, trying to forestall the churning nausea. It didn't work. The same strong, steady arms lifted and held him as he alternately vomited and dry heaved. When the spasms finally ceased, someone gave him a few sips of cool water, and gently eased him back down with a wet cloth across his eyes. He heard conversation, the voice from before.

"Don' know what's wrong with 'im. The Cap'n never used to get drunk like this before. I'm tellin' you, he ain't been the same since Gettysburg. Since we been back, I've had to track 'im down ever' night and make sure he's alright. He must've got into somp'n nother kind of big ruckus tonight. Never seen 'im hurt this bad. He didn't even know who I was!" A callused hand smoothed damp hair back from his forehead.

Another voice now, gruff, somehow familiar, oddly comforting, yet sad. "Well, he's certainly earned the right to his excesses. Y'all go on home Gabe. I'll keep watch over him. Good night."

"G'night Doc."

_Doc? Okay, 'Doc' can you please tell me where I am?_ He tried to find his voice, but the effects of emptying one's stomach several times within a few hours were hard on the vocal chords. He felt another hand gauge his left wrist and then feel his forehead. The cloth was removed, refreshed, and replaced. _Sure does feel good._ "'Scuse me…could you please tell me where I am?" he managed to croak.

"Of all the cussed things to ask. You are in bed, hopefully recoverin' from the bender from hell."

That voice. It sounded like - it sounded like…_his_! He cautiously opened one eye. Thankfully, the room didn't move this time. He slowly opened the other eye.

A slender older man was sitting in a chair beside the bed, peering down intently at him. "How're you feeling son?" The voice had lost its irritation and was filled with warmth and concern. He gazed up into ice-blue eyes, craggy face, dark hair heavily streaked with gray, handlebar mustache.

"Who-who're you?"

The man sighed sadly, "You must've taken quite a blow to your head, son. Don't you know your own father?"

_Father? Impossible! My father is - I helped to - No! No! Where AM I?_ His head began spinning, his sight faded, stomach cramping again, pain coming on stronger. "No - no! It can't be!" he managed to whisper before the merciful darkness enveloped him.

********************

Kirk and Spock materialized outside the entrance to the Federation Consul to Vela Gamma II at precisely 0845 hours. "Captain, may I remind you of your status as Starfleet's representative in this quadrant?" Spock hazarded tactfully. Kirk had been unable to get back to sleep and had uncharacteristically spent the time brooding. He had worked himself up into a simmering fury over McCoy's disappearance and the Consulate's seeming unconcern over it. "Spock, a member of my crew is missing! Worse yet, a member of my command team!" _And?_ Spock answered with his eyebrow. "AND, I'm going to get to the bottom of it if I have to go straight to Nogura himself!"

They exited exactly one hour later with nothing but the ambassador's softpedaling and no concrete plan. _Now I know why Bones hates the diplomatic corps and its inhabitants so much. They are useless!_ No amount of barely restrained saber rattling on Kirk's part had convinced the Federation's representative to take anything other than routine action. Politically, there was no love lost between the citizenry of Vela Gamma II and the Federation, and the delicacy of the situation forced Kirk to act through official channels rather than contact the Gamma II authorities directly. There was apparently even less enthusiasm for Starfleet, although the credits spent on shore leave by Starfleet personnel were by no means turned away. _Oh well money talks, Starfleet walks!_

"Well Spock it looks like we're to expect no help from this quarter."

"We have initiated planetwide hospital search, Captain." Spock, given the situation on Vela Gamma II and knowing his Captain well, subtly cautioned against any rash decisions. "I suggest we exhaust all standard avenues of procedure before considering any alternate course of action."

Kirk knew he was right and worked his jaw in frustration. _Bones, where in the hell are you?_


	4. Chapter 4

That voice. It burrowed deep through to gnaw at the lower layers of his consciousness. Gruff, irritated, downright grumpy, yet very familiar and comforting in its familiarity. _Uh-oh. Here he comes._

An affectionate parting shot thrown over the shoulder to whoever was in the other room, "To hell with you and the horse you rode in on!"

_Oh my God! My dad never went one day without saying that! What is going on here?_ He became distracted by an unexpectedly appetizing aroma, and shifted his head up slightly to try to catch and identify the tantalizing smell. _I think, nooo, I know, I'm hungry!_

"I saw that. Now open those eyes of yours, you scamp."

_Yessir! Yessir!_ He slowly opened his eyes. The same man sat bedside again with a tray of what looked and definitely smelled like homemade chicken soup.

"Sit up son." He set the tray down, plumped the pillows up as a backrest, and gently slid him to a semi-upright position. "Here, put your arm here." He placed a small, soft cushion under his splinted arm.

_Haven't been pampered like this in how many years?_

"Are you feelin' any better son?" A hand softly probed his forehead, checking for fever. The loving concern in the blue eyes made him want to cry.

_This is completely impossible. This man is not my father. Damned if he doesn't look like some relation to me though_.

"Why're you lookin' at me like that son?"

_Wish he'd quit callin' me 'son'. Startin' to feel comfortable in the part._

"Hungry, are you?"

He nodded anxiously.

"Thought so. Think you can keep this down?" He proffered a spoonful of broth.

_God I hope so._ It was wonderful - hot, flavorful, nourishing, comforting. Before he knew it, the bowl was empty and he was drowsily full.

"Sleep well, my boy. You need the rest."

He looked up at this man who so reminded him of his own father and weakly mouthed, "Thank you…." before sinking into a deep, restful sleep.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Bridge to Captain Kirk. Bridge to Captain Kirk."

The intercom buzzed insistently. The underlying anxiety in Uhura's voice immediately caught his attention as he stepped out of the shower.

"Yes Lieutenant?"

"We've located Dr. McCoy, sir. He's in the Emergency Room of Gamma II Medical Center, listed in critical condition."

"Any details Lieutenant?" He was already pulling his uniform on.

Her voice faltered just for a second, "He's been severely beaten and is in a coma, Captain."

_Oh Bones, no!_ All of a sudden he knew. The pieces all fell into place. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have not noticed? How could he have left him alone?

"Alert Sickbay, Lieutenant. Have Dr. M'Benga and Mr. Spock meet me in the transporter room ASAP."

Both men were waiting for him. Spock raised an inquiring eyebrow.

"Gentlemen, Lieutenant Uhura has located Dr. McCoy. We're beaming down to the Gamma II Medical Center", he left it at that, with a slight shake of his head.

They materialized just outside the emergency entrance. Kirk strode up to the nurse in charge. "Excuse me, I'm-"

"Yes sir, we've been expecting you. Please come this way." The nurse briskly led them to the ICU area. "Dr. Adehlson will brief you on the patient's condition."

"Gentlemen," Doctor Adehlson was short and stocky, with a shock of dark hair spilling onto dark brown eyes.

"I am Captain James T. Kirk, in command of the U.S.S. Enterprise, my First Officer, Mr. Spock, Assistant Chief Medical Officer M'Benga. What has happened to my CMO?"

"Captain, may I speak privately with Dr. M'Benga first?"

Kirk knew what the doctor was getting at. "You may speak freely before Mr. Spock and myself."

"Yes sir. Ahem, well, Doctor McCoy was apparently assaulted. He received quite a severe beating, which adversely affected the previously existing condition."

M'Benga's eyes narrowed, "Previously existing condition…?"

Kirk quieted M'Benga with a glance.

Adehlson took a deep breath and looked Kirk in the eyes, "Captain, your CMO is in a possibly irreversible coma due to what I can only assume is an accidental overdose of tranquilizers and alcohol. He is still alive only because of vomiting resultant from severe blows to the stomach."

Spock radiated the Vulcan equivalent of shock, both eyebrows elevated. M'Benga looked quizzically at Adehlson, then back to Kirk.

Kirk met all gazes head-on. "Can we see him?"

"Very briefly. We've only just now been able to stabilize him."

Silence hung heavy during the short walk to the ICU room.

"Captain, I would like to confer with Dr. Adehlson before I see Dr. McCoy."

Kirk nodded, and he and Spock entered the small room. Kirk drew a small, sad breath at the sight of McCoy on the ICU biobed. "Oh Bones…."

McCoy's bruised, swollen face was elevated due to the bandage on the back of his head. His right arm was held suspended at his side by a small antigrav, the wrist and forearm swathed in a splinted pressure bandage. His rib cage and abdomen were likewise encased in pressure bandages.

"Captain, I fail to understand what…" began Spock.

Kirk looked over, acknowledged his First Officer's concern, and then gently smoothed McCoy's damp hair back off his forehead. "Not here Mr. Spock. Let's get Bones back up to Sickbay, and I'll fill you in on what I think happened. Let's get M'Benga in here."

M'Benga stepped through the door at that moment. He bent over the prone figure, checked all the readouts, and ran an additional hand scan.

"Captain we must get him up to the ship immediately. There is some internal bleeding requiring immediate surgery. All they've been able to do is stabilize him. I believe we can operate now."

"Dr. Adehlson is willing to release him to your care?"

"Oh yes sir, I believe I've persuaded him to let Starfleet take over."

One less problem he has to deal with, thought Kirk.

"We'll need a shuttle, Captain. I would not recommend we use the transporter in his condition."

"Make the necessary arrangements, Doctor. We'll ride up with you."

The shuttlecraft landed on the pad adjacent to the emergency room within the hour. Kirk and Spock walked along with M'Benga beside the gurney. Chapel met them at the rear bay.

Kirk craned his neck as he entered and saw Scott at the controls. He smiled to himself and gently squeezed McCoy's shoulder. _Hang in there, Bones._ _You're in good hands._

Spock moved to take the co-pilot's seat. M'Benga briefed Chapel on McCoy's condition, "Keep monitoring, Chris."

M'Benga moved to Kirk's side. "Captain, I know this is probably not the time, but…what are the psychological issues involved here? I knew Leonard was profoundly affected by his father's death, but I never thought it would lead…"

"I'm not quite sure myself, Doctor. Let's concentrate on his recovery for now, and we'll deal with the whys and wherefores later."


	5. Chapter 5

He awoke with a start to the sound of a real, honest-to-God mockingbird singing its fool head off just outside the window. It took a moment for him to remember where he was. Sunlight and fresh air streamed in through the bedroom's open window. He reveled in the gentle swish of the trees against the window, the soft breeze against his face, the warmth of the sun on the bed. _Now if I only knew where I was._ That would fit the bill quite nicely. He wondered if he would have any company today. He found himself hoping he would.

He tried to shift his position in the bed and accidentally struck his injured arm hard against the cast iron bedstead. "Aaaaggghhhhh…" the shock of pain literally took his breath away, making him instantly dizzy, nauseous. _Good Lord in the morning!_ He dimly heard hurried footfalls approaching.

"Cap'n? What've you done?" He looked up through a haze of pain into the face of a bear of a man. Tall, auburn-haired, barrel-chested, downright big! He wore the butternut grey of the Confederate States of America, if he remembered his history aright.

"Wh - wh- who're…you?" he managed to stammer out.

The big man shook his head forlornly. "Cap'n how come you don't 'member me? I'm Gabe. Law, we grew up together no more'n two miles from here and done been in the same company ever since the war begun!"

The strong steady arms that lifted him out of the gutter. The strong steady arms that held him while he was sick. Coherent thought attempted to return. Pain said 'no way in hell'.

"Doc! Doc! Cap'n's hurt himself again!"

_Thanks a lot._

"That boy'll be the death of me!" flew into the room.

The words seized him. He broke out in a cold sweat, and couldn't stop shaking.

"C'mon son. Snap out of it!"

He looked up into that face again and couldn't help but see his father. "Wha- what's your…name?" he asked in a tremulous voice.

The old man slowly dropped his head, shaking it sadly. "All right, son, since you don't seem to remember. My name is Horatio. Horatio McCoy."

He must've looked a sight, for both men reached out supportive hands to his shoulders.

"Cap'n?" "Son? Are you all right?"

"Wha-what's…my…name?"

A long sigh. "David Leonard McCoy."

An old Southern novelty tune from way before his childhood ran insanely through his head - "I'm My Own Grandfather." _I'm my own how many times great grandfather? How? HOW! Maybe I __am__ dead._ He was determined not to pass out again, despite the pain. Time to face this thing. He winced as Horatio gently took his bandaged arm.

"Let's have a little look-see here."

He buried his face against Gabe's substantial chest. He couldn't help it, the pain was blinding.

"It's alright Cap'n," Gabe gripped his shoulder consolingly.

"No! No…it isn't."

"Too bad your ma didn't live to see you gone for a soldier, boy. She woulda been so proud." Horatio worked with his head down, but his eyes flickered up momentarily.

_Now_ _there's a distraction technique if ever I've heard one!_ It worked. He was immediately curious.

"What…happened to…her?"

"Well Gabe, I guess we just need to proceed on the premise that this here boy doesn't know anything, anyhow about who he is or where he's from."

"Yessir", Gabe agreed sadly.

That hurt (even though for this time period it was true). All Southerners know where they're from. He leaned over to Horatio and whispered conspiratorially, "I was…born on the…old home-place…in…Conyers, sir."

"Oh ho? You were? And from whence have you derived that conclusion?"

"I…was…there…", he managed a small smile, and was greeted with the same in return.

"Rest easy, son. I'm almost through." Then almost as an afterthought, "Your ma died givin' you to me, boy."

The stark, pathetic statement hung nakedly in the air. He didn't know what to say. He knew how he would've felt. "Oh. Do you have a…a…?" he searched for the right word.

Horatio looked up. "I have a few keepsakes. Would you like to see them?"

He nodded dumbly.

"We'll wait until a little later. You're gonna have to take it easy. You've nigh well undone my previous night's handiwork. Gabe, bring me a basin of hot water and some more linen." He shook his head slightly and unobtrusively dropped the bloody bandages on the floor. "Try to stop trembling son. It ain't makin' my job any easier", he smiled reassuringly.

He didn't feel reassured. He knew how much he was bleeding. A wave of dizziness washed over him, and he closed his eyes momentarily to try to overcome it.

When he opened them, it was twilight. He was nauseated, dizzy and disoriented, his arm elevated on the small cushion, tightly rebandaged and resplinted. It was so hot! He licked his dry, cracked lips, and tried to throw off the quilt.

The oppressive heat was unbearable. "Dad…?" the word emerged before he realized it.

A slumbering mountain seated beside the bed stirred and leaned over him. "Hey Cap'n. Cap'n? Law, Cap'n, you're burnin' up! Better get Doc."

"No,…don't wake him…"

"Sorry Cap'n, gotta disobey your orders this time."

_A doctor's work is never done!_

A groggy voice sounded from the next room, "I figured so. Gabe, go and get…" the words faded out as Horatio moved from room to room, gathering his ministrations. "Hold on son, I'll be right there", he called.

_Gettin' harder to breathe - so damn hot!_ "Dad…help me…please…"

"I'm here boy, rest easy." A hand gently lifted his aching, burning head, "Drink some of this son." A few drops of a noxious herb-tasting medicine fell on his tongue and then he greedily gulped down a cool, minty, tea-like concoction.

"Dad…?"

"Quiet boy. Keep quiet. We've got to break this damned fever. Where'n hell is Gabe?"

As if on cue, Gabe burst in the door. "Mr. Lionel warn't too happy w'you Doc, askin' him to open special'n all."

"Can't be helped Gabe!"

"I know suh. Here's the ice."

"Here boy. Chomp on this." Horatio unceremoniously stuck a chunk of ice in his mouth, and then began bathing his face, neck and chest with ice cold water.

He gasped. _OH LORD! _ He thought his heart would stop. He tried to distract himself by concentrating on the melting ice as it soothed his parched throat. "M-more…p-p-please…?"

"Gabe, keep feedin' him ice."

"Yes suh."

He hazily listened to their conversation.

"Uh Doc..?"

"Yeah?"

"I got some news from Mr. Lionel…"

"Well spit it out Gabe! Can't you see I'm busy here?"

Gabe took a deep breath, "Moss Johnson's comin' home on leave."

Horatio stiffened, "You sure 'bout that, boy?"

"Ask 'im yourself Doc!"

"Naw, I believe you. Was jus' hopin' it wasn't true."

He floated in and out of consciousness as the icy treatments continued far into the night. Time lost all meaning. At one point he thought he remembered having difficulty breathing. He vaguely recalled Horatio's tersely shouted directions, a tearful Gabe lifting his head and shoulders onto a hastily constructed pile of pillows, and snippets of disjointed conversation.

"Oh God Doc, is the Cap'n dyin'?"

"Gabe, ain't any one of us gonna outrun that horse. Jus' pray it ain't his time right now."

"Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven...Cap'n, please don't die...please..."

"Keep him propped up, boy. Yes, just like that...c'mon son, breathe! Breathe son!"

He remembered someone firmly, yet urgently massaging his painfully constricted chest and strong arms gently holding him upright until his breathing gradually eased. He remembered nothing else for a long time after that.

When he came to, a damp towel covered his neck and chest. He shifted uncomfortably, his entire body wringing wet with sweat. _This boy's gonna need a bath!_ Horatio sat to his left, dozing with his chin resting on his chest, both hands firmly clasped around his left hand.

He gave a gentle squeeze, and the older man started with a grunt. Horatio stared blankly for a moment and then rasped, "Son?" He smoothed the wet hair back off his sweaty forehead with trembling fingers, then searched for traces of the fever on his arms, chest and body.

"Thank God…thank God." Horatio's voice broke. Bending down, he gently kissed his forehead. "Thank God…," he whispered.

Something gave way, he couldn't take it anymore. Had he been granted some sort of reprieve? In every way but name (well almost), this gruff, tender, compassionate man was his father. _Oh Dad! I miss you so much!_

"I'm right here son."

Had he said it aloud? He hadn't meant to. That tore it. He couldn't stop the tears.

"Shhh,…it's alright boy." Horatio leaned down and gently touched his forehead to his for a brief moment. "Go ahead, son, go ahead. No shame here. You're gonna be all right." After a moment's hesitation, "I never told you much in words, son…, but I love you."

_I love you too Dad!_ He couldn't speak, but nodded brokenly.

"Here son, take some more of this." He gratefully drank more of the cool mint tea. "Get some rest, and you'll be up and around before you know it." With a final rough caress of his cheek, he arose and strode out the door bellowing, "Gabe! Gabe! Where'n hell are you?"

The sobs gradually subsided. He lay still, spent by emotion and numb with fatigue.

"Gabe, get out from underfoot. Go stand watch over your Captain!"

"Yes suh!"

He smiled to himself as he drifted asleep.

Gabe peeked in the door and then sat down quietly, gazing thoughtfully at the peacefully sleeping figure in the bed.

"Doc…?"

"Yeah Gabe?"

"This is worse than when the Cap'n was wounded at Sharpsburg."

Horatio came near and put a hand on the burly shoulder. "Well, Gabe, I suppose because this time it's a wound of the heart. Y'understand?"

Gabe thought long and hard. Thought of Manassas. Seven Pines. Sharpsburg. Fredericksburg. Gettysburg. Jeff and Moss Johnson. Compassion. Death. Vengeance. "Yessir. Believe I do."

They both sat in silence for a moment, and then Horatio arose. "Gabe, I thank you for lookin' after my only son."

"Doc, Cap'n's the brother I never had." Horatio nodded, squeezed his shoulder gently, and left.

"Hang on Cap'n…" Gabe whispered, half to himself.


	6. Chapter 6

M'Benga and Chapel were met by a medical team in the hangar; they rushed McCoy to Sickbay for emergency surgery. Scott paused on his way to engineering, "Captain, you will call down and let us know?"

"You know I will, Scotty."

"Aye, thank you sir."

Spock stood by, expectantly silent, as Kirk checked in with the bridge, "We'll be in Sickbay Lieutenant. Kirk out." He glanced over at Spock, "Let's talk in Bones' office."

Of course, he expected no expression on Spock's face as he related all that had transpired downplanet before he left the bar, and as he conjectured what may have happened afterwards. What he hadn't expected was the depth of shocked concern in the dark eyes.

"When Bones recovers, he may or may not let us help him through this. I've got a feeling he's going to be very embarrassed and therefore, grumpy as hell. He's going to need more than the usual amount of understanding, and may I say, finesse."

Spock nodded solemnly. "I suggest we do what humans call 'playing it by ear' Captain."

"I don't think Bones could have put it any better himself, Mr. Spock." He got the expected raised eyebrow in reply.

"I'm going to check in with the bridge while he's in surgery. Care to join me?"

"No, Jim. I will remain here."

Kirk nodded slightly and left.

Spock sat silently contemplating the bewildering array of emotions engendered by the Captain's explanation of the events of the previous evening. He did not wish to empathize completely, for the thought of losing his own father would only bring more unwanted emotion. However, neither did he wish to be callous. For the doctor to have done what Jim thinks he did proved he was in extreme emotional distress. Spock counted McCoy as one of the only two genuinely close friends he had, and he wished to help in some way. A mind meld in McCoy's current condition was out of the question, from both an ethical and medical standpoint. He decided that he would simply present himself by McCoy's side for a set time period each day, offering his support.

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He didn't know how long he slept this time. He awoke just before dawn, feeling closer to normal than he had in a long time. Definitely alone this time, he found the gentle quiet comforting. _Those two need their rest._ He stretched gingerly, protective of his unlucky right arm, and lay immersed in the peacefulness of the cool early morning. He drowsed in and out of a light sleep, awaking with a start as a hand lightly touched his forehead. "Huh - what…?"

"It's all right boy. Just checkin'."

He looked up with a small smile.

"Good mornin' sleepyhead. You hungry?"

"Yessir! That I am."

"Well, let's see what we can rustle up here…somethin' not too hard on your stomach. Be back directly."

After a few minutes Horatio returned with a bowl of honest-to-God stone-ground grits, topped by a huge dollop of genuine butter to boot! _Have I died and gone to heaven?_

"Do you need help boy?"

"No sir, I believe I can manage."

Horatio turned at the door, "Nothin' personal son, but you'all need a bath."

He nodded, mouth full.

"I'll see to it then."

He finished the rest of his breakfast, sighing deeply. He still didn't have a clue as to how or why he had ended up 400 years in the past, somewhere in Georgia during the War Between the States, ostensibly in the household of his great-great-great-ad infinitum grandfather. _Do I try to figure it out? Or do I just go with the flow? Did I die? Is this someone's idea of an afterlife? What the hell is going on?_

"Hey boy. Don't you go back to sleep now! Let's get you up."

_Are you sure about this?_ His legs felt about as steady as two twigs, but with Horatio's help he slowly made it. He suddenly realized with some embarrassment that he didn't have a stitch of clothing on. He grabbed the sheet on his way up.

"Uh…what…uh…happened to my uniform?"

Horatio snorted, "Son, don' you remember? You were covered with blood, vomit and horse shit when Gabe brung you in. You were quite the sight, not to mention smell."

_Oh Lord!_

He exulted in the hot bath, lye soap and all, an oilcloth tied around his splinted arm to keep it dry. _Oh, but this is long overdue!_

"Holler when you're finished son."

He did when he was. Cozily dressed in homespun and dungarees, he relaxed in a large overstuffed armchair in the parlor, legs up on the footstool, ceramic mug of strong, steaming hot coffee near at hand.

Horatio approached, a nondescript metal box under his arm. "Thought since you're feelin' better I'd show you some keepsakes of your ma."

He sat forward, curious.

"Your ma was a beautiful woman."

"What was her name?"

"Joanna Casey."

He blinked in shocked surprise. Had he known that subconsciously? He stared down at the image of a young woman, who looked not unlike his own daughter. Even for the period there was a timelessness about the beauty staring out at him. "You've been alone for many years. Why haven't you remarried?"

Horatio looked up, eyes misty. "Son, I loved your ma dearly. Would feel like I was betrayin' her if I did that. Anyhow, just didn't have the desire after I lost her. Now don't go lookin' like that, son. It wasn't nary your fault at all."

He didn't know why, but he somehow felt responsible.

"No, don't ever blame yourself. To tell the truth, I didn't want any 'steps'. No sir! You're the fine legacy that she left behind." Horatio glanced down at his left hand and smiled, "I see you've managed to hang onto her ring despite all your tribulations."

He met Horatio's eyes in genuine amazement. His mother passed away when he was 15, and his father had entrusted him with one of her most prized possessions, a simple gold ring with a semi-precious stone which had been given to her by her baby brother, who also died young. He, in his turn, treasured it and wore it always. He felt close to his mother when wearing it and kept her memory alive by doing so. Horatio's next words dragged him out of his reverie.

"Remember boy? I gave it to you when you was of an age to understand its' meanin'. I reckon you were, oh, 'bout 15 years old at the time."

_I can't believe this!_

"A piece of her lives on in you, boy. Don't you ever forget that."

"No sir", he whispered, eyes fixed on the eager young face from so many years ago. Thinking about his own dearly loved mother. Time to change to a less maudlin subject. "Uh, sir?"

"Son whyn't you call me Pa like you used to? Or even, what did you call me earlier? Dad?"

_Because it hurts too much_. He plowed on, "Who is this Moss Johnson you and Gabe were talking about earlier?"

"You don't remember anythin' do you boy? Well, that may be a good thing when it comes to Moss Johnson. I don't know how to tell you this son." He sat looking down for a long moment, and then got up. He returned with a letter in hand, "I'll let your own words speak. Might bring back your memory. You wrote this from just outside of Gettysburg." He began reading.

_Dear Pa - I must be brief, we are ordered to withdraw across the Potomac as soon as all can be brought to order. I wish I were a doctor like you, Pa. Then I'd be healing folks instead of killing them. Is our cause worth this ritualized butchery? I cannot tell you the indescribable sights I have seen. I would wish to spare your sensibilities. I no longer feel like a man. I feel like a common animal, scrabbling daily for survival. Pa, I killed a man today. Not in the heat of battle, not in the passion of the charge. Pa, Jeff Johnson died by my hand. Oh Pa you never saw such a sight! We were on the retreat and took cover behind some large rocks. Lord, he lay there nearly torn in half by cannon. His legs were blown clean off, and he was bleeding something terrible. He was alive Pa! He was begging me to help him. Help him! What was I going to do? __What was I going to do?__ I tried to give him a drink of water. It was then he asked me the unthinkable. God help me, Pa, I did it. I pulled my revolver and put an end to that poor soul's sufferings. At the time, I thought I did right. Now I don't know. I just don't know. Pa please forgive me. God please forgive me. Please. I pray Moss will forgive me for killing his little brother._

"Moss hasn't forgiven, has he?" he asked quietly.

"No, son. He's mad-dog mad. He's sworn to kill you." Horatio paused, and then quietly said, "I reckon that all this is why you've been on one continuous drunk since you been back."

Images of a pathetically dying young man coalesced with those of his dying father. He shuddered involuntarily, tears welling up in his eyes. "He was dying. I only wanted to let him die with some dignity. I only wanted his sufferings to end. I didn't want to see him lying there in such horrible pain. Oh Dad please forgive me." He bowed his head, quietly weeping.

"Son, it's not up to me to forgive." Horatio stood over him, taking him by the shoulders. "God only knows what you endured. God only knows what was in your heart. God is the only one to judge this here situation. Don't torture yourself. DON'T DESTROY YOURSELF, DO YOU HEAR ME?" He shook him firmly yet gently by the shoulders, forcing him to look up.

Ice blue eyes bored into his, pleading, "Son, I may be just an old country doctor" (oh how his heart leapt at those words!), "but I know real hurt when I see it. And you're hurtin' bad. Me'n Gabe are here to help you in any way we can. Please son…don't destroy yourself over this!"

He saw his father at that moment, speaking those soothing words to him, seeking to heal his broken heart. He looked down, trying to regain his composure.

"Son, one thing us McCoys are good at is hurtin'. And you've had more'n your fair share." _Damn straight I have!_ "I can't tell you how it hurts me to see you sufferin' this pain. But you know what? It's because we care. And I'd a damn sight rather care and hurt, than be some cold hearted bastard who doesn't care and hurts others."

He looked at Horatio as if truly seeing him for the first time, staring at him in love and wonder. _This man __is__ my father!_ He felt that he had been given the great gift of insight and a merciful second chance. This honorable man had bequeathed something precious down through the generations to his father, and to himself: the very essence of the men they were. He was proud to bear his name.

"Don't destroy yourself, son. Please. For my sake?" His voice quavered with emotion.

"I won't, dad. I swear to you, I won't."

With an affectionate pat on the shoulder, Horatio left him to collect his thoughts. He leaned back into the comfortable chair and must've drowsed off again, for he sat up suddenly, confusion clouding his thoughts. Haunting strains from a guitar flowed from the other room. He listened intently, and then called out, "What's that called?"

The music halted, and Gabe shuffled into the room a bit shamefacedly. "Didn't mean to wake you Cap'n!"

"That's all right. I think I've slept enough for two lifetimes. That's a beautiful tune. What is it called?"

"Well, Cap'n, many's the night you asked me to play it for you and the boys 'round the campfire." Gabe paused, but no recognition came. He sighed, "It's your favorite, called "Weepin' Sad and Lonely."

_That __would__ be my favorite! _he thought sardonically. "You play very well Gabe."

The big man's face lit up at the familiar use of his name. "Thanks Cap'n! Kin I play you somethin' else?"

"You know my favorites, Gabe. You choose."

_Aaaaahhh - even he knew this one._ The soldier's universal favorite, "Home Sweet Home." He leaned back with a deep sigh. He closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind, squelching another surge of deep, unchecked emotion. _What's to become of me?_

Gabe had a seemingly unlimited repertoire. "What's that one?" he asked, eyes still closed.

"Last Light at Manassas."

"Were we there?"

"Yessir we was", Gabe answered sadly. The next piece was heartachingly poignant.

"Gabe…?"

"This one's 'The Battle of Shiloh Hill'." Gabe anticipated his next question, "We warn't there."

"Oh." A sudden curiosity arose. "Gabe, what kind of a soldier was, uh, am I?"

Gabe began playing "The Wearing of the Grey". "Well Cap'n, the onliest thing I know to tell you is that the men would charge the very jaws of Hell if'n you ordered it."

A strange, fierce pride welled up inside him. Now he knew why his father always told him to 'never forget who you are and where you come from'. How could he let these men down? These men who had fought and suffered so much more than he ever had, or probably ever would? How could he let his father down like this? He took in a deep, shuddering breath. _No, I won't give up. I won't give up! _

"Cap'n?" Gabe's worried voice was close by.

He opened one eye briefly, "Please play some more, Gabe. Soothes my heart."

"Yessir!" Gabe looked over his shoulder and nodded at Horatio, who stood in the doorway, eyes damp with emotion. "All Quiet Along the Potomac" gently floated from his practiced hands. When he finished, soft snores sounded from the armchair.

Horatio smiled, "Gabe, think you can get my boy back to bed without disturbin' his sleep?"

"Yeah Doc. Done it before."

"Well, mind his hurt arm."

Gabe gently gathered the sleeping form in his arms, nodded and headed for the bedroom.


	7. Chapter 7

Spock stood solemnly next to the biobed, looking down at McCoy's comatose figure. Surgery had been successfully completed over three days ago, yet the doctor remained unconscious. He admitted that he found himself somewhat shocked by this turn of events. He pondered the possible reasons why the doctor would deliberately choose to die. Death, however unexpected and sad it may be, is nonetheless a part of life. Jim had explained how close McCoy was to his father. Grief at such a loss is quite natural as well. Yet, it is highly illogical to carry grief to the point of self-destruction. He sensed that there was a piece missing somewhere, that there was more to this than the sudden loss of a dearly beloved father. There was something here the doctor had felt impossible to bear. Something he felt that even his closest friends could not help him endure. He leaned over the bed. "Leonard, know that I will help in any way I can. Do not give up." He detected a small, yet definite hesitation in the slow, rhythmic breathing. Spock straightened and resumed his watch.

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He stumbled into the parlor the next morning, trying to rub the sleep from his eyes. _Why am I so tired? I'm sleeping my whole life away here!_ He trailed the marvelous scent of good, strong coffee to a small kitchen off the central hallway. Horatio, sitting at the table, looked up from his mug with a grin, "Well! Well! Look what the hounds drug in!"

Gabe jumped up to pour him some coffee, "Here y'go, Cap'n."

"Thanks Gabe. I appreciate it." He sat down slowly, wincing as he nursed his injured arm.

Gabe and Horatio exchanged knowing, worried looks.

"Son, I'm gonna have to have another look at that arm today."

"Yes sir," he answered dully. _Let me at that coffee! Maybe stress has something to do with this exhaustion. Duh, ya' think?_

"Son, when Moss shows up, and rest assured that he will, I want you to skedaddle, y'hear?"

He didn't hesitate, "No, sir. Can't do that." _Where would I skedaddle to?_ Been skedaddlin' from one thing and another, mainly from himself, for most of his life. Time to stop. Anyway, this Moss character might hurt these two if I don't stand up to him. Well, Horatio anyway. Gabe looked like he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself.

"How in the blue blazes are you gonna stand up to Moss Johnson in the shape you're in?" Horatio must've been reading his mind. "One wrong move, boy, and you'll bleed to death from that arm of yours. That is, if he don't jus' kill you outright."

_Tell me something I don't know already. _He lay his suddenly aching head down on the table, cradled it in his good arm, and said in a muffled voice, "Yes sir, I know."

Horatio, his anger suddenly deflated, gently laid a hand on the back of his head, "Son, let's have a little breakfast, I'll look at that arm of yours, and we'll deal with Moss later. What do y'say?"

He nodded imperceptibly.

Refreshed after a plate of ham, red-eye gravy, more of those wonderful grits, and quite possibly a gallon of coffee, he gave himself over to Horatio's capable hands. He didn't know why, but he couldn't bear to look at his injured wrist.

"Whew, son. When you break something you don't mess around do you?"

"No sir. I suppose I don't."

"How's that scar from your Sharpsburg wound been doin'? Givin' you any more trouble?"

"No sir, it's fine." _I guess. I don't know what he's talking about. Hope he doesn't want to look at it._

"You don't remember, do you son?" _Busted!_ _This man sure is good at readin' minds._

He nodded dumbly. Been doing a lot of that lately.

"Well let me say that it is a tale worth tellin.' And yes I will get around to the tellin' of it, as soon as I finish with this poor arm of yours. Keep still now!"

He'd never been a good patient. _God my arm hurts!_ He didn't want to let on though. He didn't want them worrying any more than they had to. _Especially dad,…uh…Horatio._ He shook his head, and felt a surge of unchecked, unreasoning, unfocused anger welling up inside commensurate with the horrible pain in his arm. He could keep quiet no longer.

"Owwww! Dammit!"

"I said to keep it still boy!"

"It hurts!"

"Well 'course it hurts! It's busted ten ways to Sunday!"

He impulsively jerked his arm from Horatio's grasp, and immediately regretted it as he very nearly passed out from the pain. Horatio, not missing a beat, grabbed it back and called for reinforcements.

"Gabe!"

"Yeah Doc?"

"Get in here and subdue your Captain!"

"Yes suh!" Those strong arms clamped his shoulders and arms in a gentle vise grip, effectively immobilizing him. Horatio nodded approvingly.

"See where that kind of behavior gets you son?"

He nodded, wincing. "Yes sir. I'll be still, I promise."

"Nope. Too late for that. Gabe, you hold tight no matter what, y'hear?"

Gabe nodded. Horatio slowly manipulated the wrist and arm, and began resplinting and rebandaging it.

_Ohhhh God! Don't pass out! Don't pass out! Stay awake!_ His vision clouded into a red fog. He knew this was necessary, but enduring it was another thing entirely. The next thing he knew he was back in the armchair, Horatio hovering over him.

"I took the liberty of checkin' on your old wound son. Everything's fine."

He looked at him uncomprehendingly.

"Oh that's right! Forgot that you forgot! You jus' sit there. I'll be right back."

He came back with a tall glass of iced mint tea. "Here son. Sip on that while I tell you your life story."

Horatio sat down across from him, and regarded him appraisingly. "I reckon it's that same stubborn bullheadedness that both got you shot and kept you alive at Sharpsburg. Your regiment did not retreat. Y'all stayed put and made a stand in the Cornfield as the Yankees was overrunnin' it. Color bearer after color bearer fell, 'til none were left. You, my brave, mule-headed son, raised the colors and urged your men onward 'til you too were shot. You were gut-shot real bad, clean through your stomach. Reckon you'll have trouble with it the rest of your life. Anyway, you refused to leave the field and were drug off along with what was left of your regiment by the Tiger Brigade, bless their little Louisiana hearts. Gabe here slung you over his shoulder like a sack of yams, you cussin' and fightin' him all the way, 'til you finally passed out."

"How'd you know all this? Did I come home?" _Listen to me - 'home'!_

"Your regimental commander wrote and told me all that happened, and that he didn't expect you to survive the night. So, I hightailed it to Virginia to either personally oversee your recovery or…or bring back your body." He paused, sighing deeply. "I almost lost you that day son. It were touch and go for a long while after that. You were ravin', outta your head for days with a high fever. I swear son, I 'bout nearly came unstrung! Guess that's why I was so relieved when your fever broke so soon the other night." He dragged a sleeve across his eyes. "If it were to happen, well, it jus' would have to happen. It may yet happen. Soon's you're healed up, I know you'll be goin' back. Nothin' for a old man like me to do about it 'cept dearly grieve for the rest of my born days."

He was deeply touched by the depth of the love and affection this man had for him. He reached out, put his hand on Horatio's shoulder and smiled. "I won't get killed if I can help it."

"Mind that you don't. And that includes here at home boy!"

_Oh yeah. Moss Johnson._

"Oh and son? Mind that arm of yours. If you'd take a little more care it wouldn't pain you so."

He took the gentle reprimand to heart and looked down sheepishly, "Yes sir. You're right." What a stupid thing to do! He had no right to cause unnecessary worry to this man who cared so much for him.

"Now boy. How 'bout some dinner?"


	8. Chapter 8

The Officers Mess had been uncharacteristically subdued lately. The good doctor's absence was keenly felt by all. Mr. Spock habitually elected to remain on the bridge, to make advance preparations for the next day's shift, he said. If he weren't a Vulcan, Uhura would've sworn he was too upset to eat. She knew that he spent at least an hour each day at Dr. McCoy's bedside, just as she herself did when off-duty. She didn't know what Mr. Spock said or did when there. The only thing she could think to do was to take the doctor's hand in hers and hum gently to him (she knew he was partial to "Shenandoah" and other music indigenous to the old American South). She talked to him as well, encouraging him to stay with them, to hold on and come back to them. She bit her lip, trying to stem the tears that came every time she thought about it. The Captain spent each evening mess hour quietly keeping McCoy company. She suspected that both he and Mr. Spock knew more than they were telling about how the doctor came to be in this predicament. His coma had now lasted one week, and with each passing day, M'Benga and Chapel privately held less and less hope. Uhura caught Scott's eye as he sent a small smile her way. Scotty too kept a daily vigil.

"He'll pull through, lass. You'll see."

"I hope so, Scotty. I hope so."

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By the end of the day he had to escape, and slipped out alone to the front porch. He hoped he could keep the pain under wraps; he didn't want to lose control again. He felt lost, engulfed by a bewildering flood of conflicting emotions - guilt, regret, recrimination, sadness, anger, helplessness, loneliness, longing. He was so very afraid to allow himself to become attached to this man who reminded him in every mannerism, word and deed of his beloved father, and yet despite himself he found it happening. Sometimes he closed his eyes and relived precious memories simply through the sound of Horatio's voice. He sighed deeply and dropped his head into his hand. A moment later, he felt a hand shyly tap his shoulder. He swung around confusedly.

"Hey Cap'n, have you heard this one?" Gabe stood behind him with guitar in hand, and launched into song:

"_Peas, peas, peas, peas, eatin' goober peas!_

_Goodness how delicious! A'eatin goober peas!_

_Just before the battle, the general heard a row,_

_He said, 'The Yanks are comin'! I hear their rifles now!'_

_He turns around in wonder, and what d'ya think he sees?_

_The Georgia Militia, a'eatin goober peas!_

_Peas, peas, peas, peas, eatin' goober peas!_

_Goodness how delicious! A'eatin' goober peas!"_

He had to smile through the tears in spite of himself. He even laughed, if only to keep from weeping.

Gabe beamed a broad grin in return. It cheered him no end to see his Captain smile. He very rarely did so.

"Oh God it sure is good to hear you laugh again, son!" Horatio stepped out onto the porch. "Didn't mean to eavesdrop, but I was worried 'bout you. I see Gabe here has managed to put you to ease." He nodded gratefully to Gabe, who looked down in embarrassment.

"Doc, Cap'n. I was just headed t'the house. Sure I don't need to stay tonight?"

"Don't think so Gabe. I think me n' my boy here will be all right. Jus' come on over first thing for breakfast, y'hear?"

"Yes suh! G'night to y'both."

"Good night boy. Sleep tight!"

"Good night Gabe. Oh, and Gabe? Thank you."

Gabe returned, gave him a quick, awkward half-hug and then hurried down the steps and into the night.

He looked up at Horatio with a small, crooked smile.

"Son," Horatio nodded affably.

He nodded back. Just then white hot pain shot all the way from his wrist up to his shoulder blade, searing his mind and involuntarily creasing his face into a frown. _Damn! Damn! Damn!_

Horatio started forward, voice hardened by concern, "David!"

"Sir?" he looked down.

"How bad is it? You want some laudanum?"

He closed his eyes. _Laudanum. Let's see. Laudanum. Tincture of…morphine?…No, opium!_ Highly effective against pain, also highly addictive in such a pure form. "No sir. I'll manage without," he said through lips tightened by pain.

"I'm glad you said that son, because I don't believe in using laudanum. Too dangerous. I always say that a little sufferin' is good for the soul."

_You say that too?_

"But, you've suffered enough. I'll rustle up somethin' for you." He left and returned shortly with a steaming mug. "Now sip on that slowly, boy. It's good for whatever ails you. As a matter of fact, I'll join you!" With an exaggerated flourish, he produced a glass and a bottle of Old No. 7 Black Label. "My daddy always said 'Show me four Bab-tists and I'll show you a fifth!'" He slapped his thigh, chortling at his joke.

He couldn't help but smile despite the pain (even though he didn't get it).

"I can't tell you how much I've missed you son."

_I've missed you too._ "That's good to hear sir." He took a tentative sip of Horatio's concoction. _Whoo-eee! What is this?_ He took another sip, another, and then another. It immediately spread to every extremity of his body, resulting in a warm, fuzzy sensation that definitely took the edge off the throbbing ache in his arm. Horatio regarded him with bemused affection.

He remembered many such evenings spent with his father. Through good times, through bad times, he and his father spent many hours just like this, sitting on the porch, drinking, talking, joking. _It ain't called Tennessee sippin' whiskey for nothing!_ Sometimes they talked through the entire night, raising bleary-eyed toasts to each beautiful Georgia sunrise. He raised suddenly misty eyes to Horatio's gaze, "I've missed you too. I really have."

"How's the pain son?" Horatio smiled.

"Not near as bad as it was," he truthfully answered. He took a large mouthful of the comforting brew. _I'm gonna be out a like a light if I keep this up!_ He felt as though he were free-floating in warm water, buoyant, relaxed, free. "Thish, uh, this sure is good. What is it?"

"That's my little secret, son."

He raised an eyebrow and smiled. Horatio smiled indulgently in return and reached over to snatch the mug from his hand. "Hey, wha-?"

"Think you've had enough son. That's what got you in trouble in the first place, remember?"

He looked down at his arm still useless in its sling, and nodded abashedly. "You're right, as usual." He yawned mightily, "I have no doubt I will sleep well tonight."

"Well that was the general idea, son."

_Slipped me a mickey, eh?_ Oh well. He could use all the rest he could get. He struggled to stay awake as the comforting sounds of a Georgia summer night washed over him: a dog's bark in the distance, the crickets' chirp, the rustle of the trees with the soft breeze, and yes, the high pitched hum of the mosquitoes. He leaned back in the willow rocker, surrendering to his sleepiness, and closed his eyes, sighing, "Oh, I wish I could stay here forever!"

Horatio leaned forward, putting a hand on his arm, "I wish we both could, son. You're soul-weary. Stay and rest up for as long as you need to."

_Soul-weary. That I am indeed. I might just take you up on that offer._

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"Doctor! The vitals are dropping!"

M'Benga cursed under his breath, "C'mon Chief! Don't do this!" He looked up at the indicators, "Slight but definitely decreasing. Keep me updated, Chris." He turned toward the office, "It's all up to Leonard now."

He stepped into McCoy's office and wearily sat down. A moment passed before he reached for the 'com, "M'Benga to Captain Kirk."

"Kirk here."

"Captain, when you have a free moment I would like to discuss Dr. McCoy's condition with you."

"On my way. Kirk out."

Kirk rubbed his forehead tiredly as he listened to M'Benga's prognosis. "Captain, the longer he remains comatose, the smaller the chances of a full recovery. And there's nothing we can do about it. We can treat the physical symptoms. But the psychological…"

"You mean he has to want to come out it."

"Yes. The gradually declining vitals are not a good sign. I think he may be giving up. He'll become weaker and weaker and the next stage will most likely be pneumonia."

_No! Bones, how could you do this to yourself? How could you do this to us? How could you do this to __me__? _"What can we do?"

"Continue to do what we've all been doing. Sit with him, talk to him, touch him, hold his hand, show your care and concern. I've noticed that even Mr. Spock has been spending an hour each day simply sitting with him, talking softly to him. I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but I distinctly heard him tell Leonard not to give up. And Christine speaks to him during her entire shift, keeping him up to date on what's going on in Sickbay and the shipboard news. All the others spend at least a few minutes each day , encouraging him. And as we both know Captain, you're here every evening. He can hear and understand on a deeply subconscious level. I think that if we continue to reassure him, tell him how much he means to each of us, it may make the difference."


	9. Chapter 9

Images of Horatio suffused those of his father. They merged, became one, separated, then merged again. He couldn't tell who was who. He saw his father, gaunt on his deathbed, surrounded by equipment and machinery, his breathing ragged and erratic due to the intense pain. Then it transformed into Horatio's face, looking up at him with love and trust. He cried out in his sleep, once, twice, three times. Someone gently shook his left shoulder.

"David! Son, wake up!"

He bolted awake, disoriented, shaking with cold sweat, instinctively protecting his injured arm. Horatio sat on the side of the bed, looking at him, eyes sharp with concern. He put out a steadying hand. "Son, calm down. 'Twas a nightmare, is all."

Despair welled up from the innermost reaches of his soul. He bowed his head as if in shame. "Oh dad. If you only knew what I've done…You'd hate me. I know you would." His voice broke.

Horatio pulled him close into a desperate hug, his whispered voice burning in his ear, "Listen to me, boy. You are my son. I've been both father and mother to you your whole life. Why in the devil would I hate you? You are, always have been and always will be my life's joy. Don't do this to y'self son! Do you hear me? Don't!" His voice dissolved into low sobs and they clung to each other tightly. Horatio helped him ease back down into bed. "Now you lie back and relax. Take deep breaths. Don't think 'bout anything but gettin' some sleep. I'll be right here boy. Jus' relax. That's right. Don't worry 'bout a thing." He sat silent a moment, searching for a happy memory, then said, "Hey son, remember when we used to go fishin' down to the Chattahoochee? We'd catch us a whole mess of fish and then take a snooze under the trees?"

_Oh God yes._ He and his dad spent many lazy afternoons down at the river. The soothing tone of Horatio's voice reinforced the memories of those happy times. He felt himself growing sluggish with fatigue despite his roiling emotions. His eyes closed, struggled open again, then closed once more.

"My poor ol' hurt boy," Horatio whispered. "Sleep. Sleep." He remained by his side for the rest of the night.

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Kirk sat on the empty bed beside McCoy's. He stared at the monitors and equipment, wondering what his friend had found so tragically impossible to endure. _Bones, what happened? Why didn't you come to me? To Spock? To anybody?_ He reached over and took McCoy's limp hand in his. "Bones, this is Jim. I'm so sorry about your dad. I know it hurts. It hurts like nothing else ever will. Please, please, know that we are all here for you. Please don't give up. We,..er, I,…don't know what I would do without you to kick my ass when I need it, and even when I don't. And Spock,…well, who would keep him on his Vulcan toes?" There was no response. Why was he expecting one? He replaced McCoy's hand on the bed and stood up. "Please hang on. I'll still be here to see you every evening, Bones, I promise."

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With most of the next day's morning spent once again drowsing in the armchair, he grew tired of the inactivity and the resultant mounting dread. He was ready to break out and take action. The idea was to take the offensive, to seek out and intercept this Moss Johnson away from Horatio and Gabe. It sounded like a good idea anyway. He didn't care what happened to himself, he just didn't want to drag them into any danger. He was looking for some boots, shoes, brogans, something, so he wouldn't have to go out in his stocking feet.

"Whatcha doin' son?"

He started and turned. "Uh, I thought I'd stretch my legs…"

"Since your memory still doesn't seem to be workin' aright…"

"Sir?"

"Well, I do believe that a brave and distinguished Captain in the Army of Northern Virginia like yourself is required to wear his uniform when out and about in the public eye."

_Oh._ He should've known that. Military regs hadn't changed much in 400 years. "Where is it?"

"In your room. I washed it and laid it out for you."

He went in the bedroom, and slowly put on the only uniform he saw, the blue-trimmed uniform of an infantry Captain. Looked rather dashing actually. Even had a sword! _Don't let it go to your head. This isn't real, remember? _As he was pulling on the boots, something suddenly clicked in his mind. _David Leonard McCoy. Horatio McCoy._ _Leonard Horatio McCoy._ He remembered his father telling him that his daddy had named him for an ancestor who had served with distinction in the Confederate Army. His father in turn bestowed a double honor on him by naming him after both the son and the father. It all fit! _Oh Dad how'd you know?_

"Well, well, well! That's what comes of leadin' militia! I'm jus' jokin' son." came Horatio's voice from the doorway. He turned to face him and made a little mock bow from the waist.

Just then a sharp, insistent rapping sounded at the front of the house. Horatio looked back over his shoulder, his expression darkening. "Stay here son."

Horatio stepped out through the parlor and onto the front porch to greet the visitor.

"Well, so proud you come to see us Moss", he said sarcastically.

The man's face was a study in anger-fueled hatred. "I come to see David, Dr. McCoy."

Horatio stood immobile, arms crossed over his chest.

"I got no quarrel with you Dr. McCoy. Stand clear!"

"I beg to differ with you Moss. Any quarrel you have with my son, you have with me. And besides, the boy's hurt! You incitin' a fight with a injured man?"

"He murdered a injured man! He didn't care that my brother was hurt!"

"Moss you jes' don't get it do you? Poor Jeff was dyin'! Horribly and painfully. David thought he did the right thing. Now I'm not sayin' it were right or wrong. I wasn't there, but I know my son! He would not kill in cold blood."

Johnson stood unmoved, seething with rage. Horatio narrowed his eyes briefly, then acquiesced.

"He's inside. Let me fetch him for you."

He stepped inside the front door, keeping his eyes on Johnson all the while.

"Son, you got a visitor."

He had figured this day was coming, and damned if it wasn't here already. _What am I supposed to do? I don't know this person!_ He warily stepped outside, Horatio on his heels.

"McCoy I'm callin' you to account for my brother."

"Moss jus' go on home and spend this time with your family instead of harassin' David."

"Dad. This is between Moss and me…"

Horatio shot him a withering glare that gave him instant sympathy for every poor soul at whom he had had the temerity to direct that very same expression at.

A whispered aside, "Please….Pa?" That did the trick. Horatio reluctantly gave way as he moved down the front steps to face Johnson.

"Moss, I can't tell you how sorry I am about Jeff. I stand before you guilty as charged. I did what he asked me to do and what I thought was right at that time. Now do what you want with me."

Johnson wavered, momentarily taken aback. Where was the fiery temper David McCoy was renowned for? He was counting on that for his defense.

"A soft answer turneth away wrath," came an amused whisper over his shoulder. _Good advice!_ He didn't know about turning away wrath, but it sure caused a lot of useful confusion. Johnson took a step back, as if he didn't know what to do next. He obviously had lost his nerve, and moved off back towards town.

"You ain't seen the last of me McCoy!"

He turned back toward Horatio and promptly stumbled over his own feet. Now that his bravado moment was over, he couldn't seem to stop shaking. Horatio extended a fatherly arm around his shoulders and steered him back onto the porch and inside the house.

"C'mon boy. Sit down. That was quite the trick you pulled on ol' Moss. He sure warn't expecting that."

"Maybe not, but he'll be back."

"Yeah, I expect he'll go to the saloon and get some liquid courage."

_Oh great! Hoist by my own petard!_

"How 'bout a little snort yourself? You look like you could use it." Horatio was readin' minds again.

He nodded tightly, his expression betraying his anxiety.

Horatio came back in and poured them each two fingers of Old No. 7. "Don't look so anguished son. It's not necessarily the end of the world."

_IT'S NOT? What on earth does he mean by that?_

Horatio lifted his glass, "Here's to you, son. Ahhh, that is good. Here, have another. And no, I haven't taken leave of my senses! I don't reckon even Moss is stupid enough to want to tangle with Gabe. That boy'll lay down his life for you son. He's not gonna let anything happen to you."

"I, uh…,"

"You don't remember, right? Well, I guess I can handle all the remembering around here for now. You'n Gabe grew up together son. His ma died when he was nigh onto two years old, if I recollect rightly. Y'all had something pretty hurtful in common for two little tykes and became inseparable. Still are, as a matter of fact."

At that moment, Gabe pounded up the front steps and rushed frantically into the parlor. "Cap'n? Doc? Are y'all alright? I passed Moss Johnson on the road comin' up from here and…"

"Calm y'self Gabe. We're as fine as a frog hair split three ways. My intelligent, unpredictable son here threw ol' Moss off his track."

"Doc you know if anythin' happened to either of y'all I'd never forgive m'self." He turned, "How're you feelin' Cap'n?"

"Much better Gabe. Thanks for askin'."

Gabe drew himself up to attention and saluted, "Cap'n I 'spectfully request that you let me take care of Moss. He ain't gonna mess with me."

"I can't let you do that Gabe. This is my affair."

Horatio rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "When will you accept the fact that you are not alone here boy? I'll be damned if I'm gonna abandon you to that madman!"

"And I'll be damned if I let anything happen to you!" He surprised even himself with his own vehemence. "I couldn't live with myself if anything happened to you because of my stupidity," he whispered guiltily.

Horatio came round, knelt by the chair and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Guess we're at a deadlock then, boy. You know how stubborn us McCoys can be," he smiled.

He raised an eyebrow in reply. Yes, indeed he did. And he wasn't going to back down on this one.

Horatio moved back to his seat, grinning. "Y'know son, it don't make no never mind to me. Jus' so long as you let me'n Gabe help you deal with Moss."

He rolled his eyes heavenwards. "Dad haven't you heard anythin' I've said?

"No son, can't rightly say as I have," Horatio replied mischievously. Gabe chuckled.

A warning stab of excruciating pain flew up his arm. _Damn it! Won't this ever stop hurting? Hold your tongue!_ He knew what was coming, and felt powerless to halt the onrushing torrent of hurtful words.

"What're you laughin' at? This isn't one bit funny!" he barked at Gabe.

Gabe looked at him in stunned bewilderment.

Horatio sat forward, eyes narrowing. "Son…" he growled warningly.

"No! I'm sick and tired of this! Don't you have anything better to do?"

Gabe stared at him, mouth working, then at the floor, then helplessly at Horatio. Horatio swallowed hard at the naked hurt he saw in Gabe's eyes. He nodded, and followed Gabe as he slowly made his way out onto the porch.

He heard the sound of a hushed conversation, and saw Horatio give Gabe a quick hug before he crept away. Horatio stepped just inside the door, watching Gabe move off, before he turned to come back into the parlor.

Horatio's glare was a palpable thing. Horatio's wrath was another thing entirely. He withstood the well-deserved tirade with eyes closed, clutching his arm, trying to will the pain away. The pain in his heart didn't respond to his attempts at dismissal either.

"What in the blue-blazin' hell is wrong with you? You warn't brung up to act this way! That boy loves you like a brother! More'n likely saved your life at Sharpsburg to boot! What right d'you have to treat him thataway?" Horatio stalked across the room, then whirled, "Son are you listenin' to me?" He broke off long enough to lean down and finally notice the sheen of perspiration on his face, as well as the ill-concealed pain.

"I'm sorry dad. I'm sorry! I just don't want either of you hurt!" he whispered.

"Oh son," Horatio's tone softened. "I know you're hurtin', but don't burn your bridges! Gabe understands. I explained it to him. But his feelins sure are hurt. He's comin' back later, and I 'spect he'll be lookin' to hear an apology. Or two. Or maybe even three!"

"Yes sir. He certainly deserves it. I- I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me."

"I do son," Horatio sighed. "Pain-frustration-fear-guilt. But mainly pain right now, I see. We will get through this together, not alone! Y'all hear me?"

"Yes sir I hear you."

"All right then. Sit back and try to relax. Close your eyes. Let me fetch something for that arm."

He slept fitfully in that comfortable armchair for the rest of the afternoon, thanks to another dose of Horatio's patented pain potion. A hand gently nudged him until he awoke, thankfully releasing him from the clutches of yet another nightmare. He shook his head to clear it and Horatio's concerned face slowly came into focus.

"Son? You hungry?"

He shrugged listlessly, "I don't know. I guess so."

"David", Horatio took a seat facing him and leaned forward. "I dearly wish I could take this burden off you."

_I wish you could too!_

"But life has to go on! Son, if you keep this up you're either gonna be a hard, bitter, beaten man, or you're gonna find life intolerable. I don't want that for you. You've got to live son! After all," (this said with a mischievous twinkle in his eye) "you've got to ensure that the illustrious name of McCoy will go on for at least one more generation."

That got him the small smile he was aiming for.

"Whatever happens in the future son, remember - life has to go on! You're so plumb full of compassion and caring, it's no wonder you hurt. And you're in store for a lot more! Take it son! Jus' take it and go on! And try to remember your old pa every oncet awhile." Horatio reached out to gently grip his shoulder.

_As if I ever could or would forget!_

"Now how 'bout some supper?"

They arose together and headed to the kitchen, arms wrapped around each others' shoulders.


	10. Chapter 10

After supper, he stepped out alone onto the porch in the quickly darkening twilight. "Be out there directly son!" Horatio called from the kitchen.

He leaned against the rail, lost in thought. Then everything happened lightning fast. He was struck hard on the back of the head, and fell to the ground momentarily stunned. He arose unsteadily, clutching at his broken arm, and was confronted by a very drunk Moss Johnson, holding a very large Bowie knife.

"Now you'll get what's comin' to ya McCoy," snarled Johnson.

He edged away from the house, trying to draw Johnson after him. He dearly wished he hadn't chased Gabe off now.

"Moss you don't want to hang, do you?"

"Ha! Who'd hang me fer avengin' m'brother?"

He stumbled over a rock in the darkness, and almost lost his footing, "Well what about the army?"

"Th' army? Who gives a rat's ass 'bout the army? We're whupped."

_Keep talkin'. Keep talkin'. Get him as far away from the house as you can!_

"That's a hell of a thing to say!"

"Damn right it is!"

"We ain't licked yet Moss! We're gonna win this here war!"

"Who - you and Lee's Miserables?" snorted Johnson.

"Damn straight!"

"Y'all can all go to hell McCoy, and I'm a'sendin' you there right now…!"

Johnson's reply suddenly grew closer as he lunged with the knife. He braced himself for the blow, but felt another body seemingly appear out of nowhere to suddenly block Johnson and take the strike right in front of him.

"Damn…you…Moss!" came Horatio's strangled, outraged voice. "Gabe!"

Gabe came around the corner at a full run, carrying a lantern. He quickly dispatched Johnson with a beefy fist to the jaw, and then slid to his knees beside Horatio, trying to staunch the blood. "Good God! Cap'n what happened?"

He stared down, shaking uncontrollably, mute with horror. _No! No! No! Not again!_ He dropped to his knees and managed to cry out, "Pa! Oh dear God, Pa! No!" He gathered Horatio in his arms, ignoring his own injury. "No! Not now! Oh God please…I just found you! Not now…please!"

"Son", Horatio gasped. "Remember what...I told you! Don't destroy y'self…over any…of this! I did…what I did…because I love you boy…"

He dragged a sleeve savagely across his brimming eyes, "Pa don't leave us!"

"Can't…help it…. Go back boy! You go back and live! D'you hear me? For…me. For your…pa. And son…know…that we love…you." Then came a final labored exhalation.

"Pa? Dad? Oh God! He's gone!" He collapsed in hysterics across Horatio's bloodied chest. Gabe enfolded them both in a tearful, compassionate embrace. He tried to comfort his friend, his Captain, his brother.

"Cap'n, Cap'n…listen t'me. I'm so sorry. Doc really loved you. And I know you loved him."

"Yes, yes, I did," he sobbed. He raised his head and screamed, "OH GOD NO!" He screamed and raged and screamed and raged again and again and again, until he was nauseated, until he was dizzy, until his throat was bloody and raw. He raged against the cruelty of life, the cruelty of death, the cruelty of losing his father all over again, the cruelty of loss, period. Then, exhausted, he collapsed senseless in Gabe's arms.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Kirk assumed his solitary daily vigil, head in hands. "Oh, Bones, how much longer?" he whispered to himself. Slight movement, and then a faint, choked cry came from the figure on the bed.

_No! No!_ _Dad….oh God no!…I love you. Dad! Do you hear me dad? I did what I did…because I love you…_

"Bones? Bones!" Startled, Kirk leaned over McCoy, searching his face for any sign of recognition. Anguish-filled blue eyes stared vacantly into his.

"Oh God…he's…gone!" He began sobbing openly, heartbreakingly. Kirk took his hand, knowing better than to try to offer any words of comfort. He simply sat near, silently supportive, as McCoy wept uncontrollably.

Kirk vividly recalled his own father's death, even though he had not been present when it occurred, as McCoy had. He could no longer hold back. "Bones,...my friend," he said softly. "It's all right. Grieve. Grieve for as long as you need to. You loved your father, and I know he loved you."

"Yes…yes, he did." McCoy sobbed.

He had never seen McCoy so distraught, yet he fully understood his friend's deeply felt loss. He leaned down, eyes closed, and lightly touched his forehead to McCoy's, trying to impart some little strength. He felt the unrelenting sobs slowly ease. He lifted his head and whispered, "Bones? Are you going to be all right?"

McCoy looked up at him as if seeing him for the first time. "J-Jim? Be…all… right…Jim…."

Completely drained, McCoy fell asleep, tears still streaming down his face. Kirk gently wiped them away, relinquished his tight grip on McCoy's hand and waved the medical personnel in, thankful for their consideration for his friend's privacy.

Chapel, wiping her own eyes, nodded to him as she began taking readings. "It'll take some time Captain, but I think he'll be all right."

"I hope so, Chris…I hope so."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The 'com whistled. "Bones?"

Kirk's voice. He tried to ignore the anxious concern Jim didn't bother to conceal. He had tried to ignore the anxious concern everyone had been so graciously showing him. They'd all been so worried, so understanding, so sympathetic. Uhura and Chapel had surprised him upon his release from Sickbay with a beautiful arrangement of florals and aromatics from the Botany Section. _Bless their hearts!_ He knew everyone cared. Vague memories surfaced of all of them at one time or another by his side, talking to him, encouraging him, supporting him. But he was so ashamed. He imagined he could see an undercurrent of hurt beneath the solicitude in their eyes. Scotty. Uhura. Sulu. Chekov. M'Benga. Chapel. Spock. Jim. How could he have done this to them? He swallowed hard.

"Yeah Jim?"

"Just wanted to check on you. Haven't seen you on the bridge or anywhere else lately. How're you doing?"

He didn't know. He really didn't know. Released to quarters, on medication, still physically weak, under psychiatric care and not yet declared fit for duty, he had been introspectively brooding for the last few days, trying to figure out what had happened. It had been so real! Wasn't it real? Surely his mind wasn't that resourceful! Perhaps a merciful providence had seen fit to give him a hard lesson. A lesson he would never forget for the rest of his life. A lesson he would keep to himself. Never, ever, under any circumstances would he reveal the true nature of his father's passing. He swore to bear that heartache alone until the end of his life. How could he burden Jim and Spock with that, and the personal confirmation that he had been more than willing to end his own life because of it? To tell them to their faces that their friendship hadn't meant enough to him to keep him from permanently abandoning them? He just couldn't, and more importantly, wouldn't. He had unconsciously resumed his unforgivable behavior of before, avoiding them both like the plague. He would always deeply harbor the hurtful, overwhelming guilty feelings which would forever taint the happy memories of his beloved father. _Hmmm, maybe of great-great-great-great-great-great-grandpa Horatio too._ He smiled in spite of himself. He had deeply hated his middle name as a youngster and always told people the 'H' stood for 'hellion'. _Boy, was I a smartass or what?_ Now he felt he understood why his father chose to honor the memory of this man from so long ago, and he was grateful to him for remembering, and for loving him enough to bestow that name upon him.

_Oh yeah. Jim. The com. Enough brooding already! Dad wouldn't have wanted this for me!_ "Uh, Jim?"

"Yes Bones?" Jim was patient as ever with him.

"It's nearly shift change. Why don't you meet me on the observation deck? Just because I can't have any Saurian brandy doesn't mean you have to be deprived. I'll just sit there, sip my Altair water and drool, okay? Oh, and see if Spock will come with you as well. I think I could use y'all's company right about now, if you don't mind." After the briefest of pauses, he could feel the warmth of Kirk's smile breaking out over the 'com.

"You're on. We'll see you in a few minutes. Kirk out."

He knelt down to grab the bottle of Saurian brandy from the back of the lower cabinet, and his eye landed on the holo he had hidden away there when he could no longer bear to see it. It was of he and his dad, arms around each other's shoulders, taken on one of his last visits before his final illness. He found that he could look at it now without the overwhelming heartache, without the horrible gut-wrenching sensation of being pummeled in the stomach, without losing control, without bursting into desperate tears. The pain and guilt would always be there, deeply buried within his heart. But somehow, the hurt didn't seem to be as near the surface as it was before. He brought the holo out of the cabinet and replaced it on the desktop where it belonged. His hand lovingly caressed the frame, and then he slowly arose and headed to the observation deck.

_**Good-bye dad. I'll always love you!**_


End file.
